deigned to visit her discarded kingdom, she would find how busily and successfully and originally they had got on without her, and that there was no place for her on the committee, and probably none in the Museum for the Elizabethan turnspit which so often made the chimney of her music-room to smoke. Riseholme, indeed, was busier than ever, for not only had it the Museum feverishly to occupy it so that it might be open for the tourist season this year, and, if possible, before Lucia came down for one of her promised week-ends, but it was immersed in a wave of psychical experiments. Daisy Quantock had been perfectly honest in acknowledging that the idea of the Museum was not hers at all, but Abfou’s, her Egyptian guide. She had, it is true, been as ingenious as Joseph in interpreting Abfou’s directions, but it was Abfou to whom all credit was due, and who evidently took such a deep interest in the affairs of Riseholme. She even offered to present the Museum with the sheet of foolscap on which the words “Riseholme Museum” (not “mouse”) were written, but the general feeling of the committee, while thanking her for her munificence, was that it would not be tactful to display it, since the same Sibylline sheet contained those sarcastic remarks about Lucia. It was proved also that Abfou had meant the Museum to be started, for subsequently he several times said, “Much pleased with your plans for the Museum. Abfou approves.” So everybody else wanted to get into touch with Abfou too, and no less than four planchettes or ouija-boards were immediately ordered by various members of Riseholme society. At present Abfou did not manifest himself to any of them, except in what was possibly Arabic script (for it certainly bore a strong resemblance to his earlier efforts of communication with Daisy), and while she encouraged the scribes to persevere in the hope that he might soon regale them with English, she was not really very anxious that he should. With her he was getting Englisher and Englisher every day, and had not Simkinson, after having had the true meaning of the word “lazy” carefully explained to him, consented to manage her garden again, it certainly would have degenerated into primeval jungle, for she absolutely had not a minute to attend to it. Simkinson, however, was quite genial. “Oh yes, ma’am, very pleased to come back,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to get on long without me, and I want no explanations. Now let’s have a look round and see what you’ve been doing. Why, whatever’s happened to my mulberry tree?” That was Simkinson’s way: he always talked of “my flowers” and “my asparagus” when he meant hers. “I’ve been pruning its roots,” she said. “Well, ma’am, you’ve done your best to do it in,” said Simkinson. “I don’t think it’s dead though, I daresay it’ll pull round.”